The Improbable Truth
by catwomanswrath
Summary: A ton of friendly Sherlock/John bromantic one shots. No slash.
1. Tacit

A/N: Hello! It's great to be back. I haven't written anything for fanfic in the longest time… Criticism is appreciated, but be gentle to this returned-from-retirement writer!

To be honest, the entire point of these one shots will be so I can learn new words So each story will be based around a word I am unfamiliar with or I think needs reinforcing in the empty space where my brain is supposed to be. Perhaps I might write a full out story if this turns out well…

A/N 2: As you will see, I'm going to go overboard with sentence fragments in this story as I am trying to get a feel for them so I might be able to use them correctly in later pieces of writing.

Tacit _Adj._ Understood without being openly expressed; implied.

John made tea. Milk no sugar and 3 sugars no milk. Stir. Repeat daily. At first he was quite annoyed that Sherlock would simply assume that he would run himself ragged completing the house chores. After some time he tried to goad Sherlock into aiding him in some of the household tasks, but to no avail. Eventually, he was surprised, and a little depressed, to find that his ritual had become habitual. His life practically revolved around the detective.

Wake up.

Make tea.

Yell at Sherlock.

Go to work.

Argue with Sherlock on the phone.

Come home.

Glare at Sherlock.

Make tea.

Bicker with Sherlock.

Go to sleep.

Repeat.

This was how John lived his life, and, being accustomed to it, found that it didn't bother him much anymore. One day, upon waking up, John felt a tickle at the back of his throat. He bypassed his striped sweater that lay neatly folded on the dresser and headed downstairs. As he made tea, he noted that the apartment felt a little chillier than normal. When he turned around to give Sherlock his tea, an odd sight greeted him.

"Sherlock, what are you doing with all those blankets?"

The man had piled all the blankets he could find on the couch and was layering them one by one. He quickly glanced at John but said nothing.

"Fine. Whatever. Just clean it up after." He stated, knowing deep down, or perhaps not THAT deep down, that he was probably the one who would have to tidy it up anyways.

He opted for a warmer coat before heading off to work. The clinic was also frostier than he remembered. There weren't many patients to see that day, for which he was glad. The tickle in his throat had progressed to a hybrid between a clearing of the throat and a cough. At lunch he munched on the sandwich he prepared for himself the previous day, which surprisingly had not come into contact with any body parts; at least to the best of his knowledge. Swallowing had become a pain and he had to down lots of water to stop himself from choking. His phone buzzed, signaling the daily call from Sherlock.

" Yeah?" he answered, feeling a little tired.

" Would it be permissible if I were to enter your room?"

John blinked, taking a moment for the message to register. "What? What do you want from my room?"

"It is imperative that I am allowed into your room."

"That doesn't answer my question, Sherlock. Why do you need to go into my room?"

"That is irrelevant. Yes or no?"

"You better not be conducting an experiment in there. Besides, I thought you liked to text mo-," the line was cut off and John shoved the phone in his pocket with an exasperated sigh. What on earth would he have to clean when he got home?

By late afternoon he felt awful. He was coughing left and right, and his body shivered uncontrollably. By the time he was able to head home, he felt like he had spent a week in the arctic in nothing but his boxers. He had trouble inserting the key into the lock between his trembling hands and numb fingers. The short walk up the stairs felt like a marathon and taxed his lungs heavily. Upon reaching the flat, he didn't even take his coat off. He stumbled his way through the dark, collapsed onto the couch and tunnelled his way through layers of blankets, settling in at the cozy bottom. After a few minutes, the darkness of the flat made him realize that Sherlock was not home. As if the wry _consulting _detective had read his thoughts, his phone buzzed in his pocket. Sherlock, obviously.

_On a case. SH_

John set his phone on the floor, only to come in contact with something soft. He flashed the light of his phone around and was surprised to find his striped sweater. "I swear I left it upstairs…" Not questioning it, he quickly shimmied into the sweater and was able to shed his coat. He felt amazingly comfortable. If only he had a cup of… A certain smell reached his nose. He shined the light on his phone once more and smiled when he spotted a cup of steaming tea on the table. He sipped the tea and hummed in pleasure at the delicious taste with a hint of honey added in. It soothed his throat considerably. The blankets, his sweater, the tea… His phone buzzed again.

_Essential that your state improves soon. Need blogger. -SH_


	2. Paucity

A/N: Anyone know Anderson's first name? Also, Lestrade needs his Wilkins back… Perhaps I'll write about it later. Also, I'm absolutely pulling these facts out of my a-. Feel free to correct me.

Paucity – smallness of quantity ; scarcity; scantiness

It has come to my attention that there is a rapid decline in the intelligence quotient of the human population. To prove my point I have examined four individuals in order of increasing (though still minimalistic) intelligence:

Anderson

33, married for six years. No children (thankfully). Serial adulterer. One of the most insufferable human beings to walk the planet Earth. If his brain were to work any less efficiently, he would probably forget how to breathe. An idiot of the highest degree. Hardly worth elaborating.

King Arthur/Stormageddon, Dark Lord of All/ David

Age unknown. Yesterday I met an interesting man at the park. Amidst his random ramblings about the end of the world, Merlin and occupy London, this homeless man had piqued my interest. A far better example of Homo sapiens than Anderson. I was able to garner intriguing facts about survival in a city whilst escaping authorities. I labeled such information as "interesting" and set it aside to test for at a later date. Unfortunately, some officers came by (dull) and recognized the man as an escaped convict from the nearby mental health institute and promptly carted him off. Pity. The next time we meet I will have to inquire about escape tactics.

Gregory Lestrade

Detective Inspector for the Scotland Yard. 42. Has shown penchant for romantic comedies which he and John secretly watch together. Unhappily married and soon to undergo a divorce in which his spouse will be granted full custody over the children and the deed to the house. Tolerable. His redeeming quality is knowing when he is out of his depth, which is almost always.

John Hamish Watson

Army doctor recently returned from Afghanistan. Well informed in matters pertaining to medicine and the human body. Is incredibly sentimental and prone to random outbursts of anger upon seeing one of my experiments (Note to self: check on nose in breadbox for malignant growths). John is knowledgeable in many useless areas such as some planets rotating around some star or other. He is also well versed in cooking, and cleaning. Useful. Possesses questionable taste in clothing. Is terrible at writing. Good for fetching things (if one can put up with the lecturing and grumbling). Favourite colour is blue. Favourite TV show is IQ. He has proven to be incredibly adept at distracting consulting detectives from their original experiments. Further investigation required.

A/N: I painted a moustache on my thumb. Thought you ought to know.


	3. Disquietude

A/N: I give up on the word thing. There are too many awesome stories I want to write about, but can never find a word that goes with it. Also, feel free to point out any mistakes I make with British slang!

John had an unusually light day at work. He spent most of his day lounging about and reading a new book he picked up called, "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". Sherlock had gotten through a few pages of it (at John's insistence) and then promptly threw it away. He detested its "lack of logic" and also stated "the main character is boring and dull". John rather enjoyed the book, himself. He found that it nicely summed up what he thought was going on in Sherlock's head at all times.

"John?" He broke out of his musings to see Sarah standing in the open doorway, with her arm raised as if she had just knocked. " Seems like it's a bit of a slow day today, and Tim's come in a bit early, so you can pop off early if you'd like."

"Thanks, Sarah," John replied in appreciation. This day was just getting better and better. It took no time at all to put on his coat and headed home. He planned the rest of his afternoon on the tube. A nice, snuggly jumper would obviously be in order; and perhaps a nice cup of tea and some biscuits if Sherlock left the kettle alone this time. As he fumbled with the keys in the chilly autumn afternoon, he heard a god awful shout from the flat.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he flung open the door to the flat, but could not see anything out of place. At that moment, Sherlock slammed his bedroom door open and froze when he saw John. He seemed ghastly pale and his breathing was a tad bit erratic.

"Sherlock!" John gasped, "Are you alright?" He made his way over to his friend, who then passed him by to walk into the kitchen. "Sherlock!" John called again, going after him. "What on earth was that? Was that you?"

Sherlock seemed to be ignoring him, and was poking about some odd, green, fungus like thing that he had taken out of the cupboard.

"Sherlock…" John growled, "will you tell me what's wrong?"

Sherlock continuously ignored John and continued to pretend to look busy.

John sighed and ran a hand through his short, blond hair. Looking around, he saw the door to Sherlock's room was still open. He had never gone in there before, but… John inched closer to Sherlock's room. He could hear the exact moment Sherlock realized what he was going to do, and made a mad dash for the room. He could hear Sherlock close behind and was unable to shut the door in his face. He was tackled to the bed, where he felt a sharp pain in his hip. He pulled it out and saw that it was Sherlock's laptop. There was a mad struggle for the thing, but thankfully John's military training was not for nought, and he was able to keep Sherlock at bay as he opened the laptop.

Amnesia: The Dark Descent

John read before Sherlock snatched his laptop out of his hands. "Sherlock, were you scared… by a computer game?"

Sherlock had his back to him, but he could pretty much imagine the pout of epic proportions that would currently be displayed on his face. "It's a particularly scary one…" he thought he heard Sherlock mumble.

"Sherlock, what on earth would possess you to play a video game?"

"It's research," came the terse reply. "Studying psychology and experimenting…" he trailed off.

They sat in silence for a few moments. "Alright. Let's see it."

Sherlock donned a confused look on his face.

"It's, er, better if you have more test subjects, isn't it?" John supplied helpfully, clearing giving Sherlock an easy way out of his predicament.

Sherlock, understanding the motion for what it was, gave a small upturn of the lips before showing John the game.

They didn't sleep for a week.

A/N: MY GOD. THIS GAME. ASDFGHJK! I wanted to play this game for a while, and today I decided to try out the demo before I bought it. BIG MISTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE. - reference to one of many Amnesia freakout videos. At any rate, I want that game more than ever now. Peanut. Oh shit! I've got a bag of milky ways!


End file.
